


Steady as You Go

by eirabach



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Bisexual Male Character, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, F/M, Gordon Tracy gets a gun, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Leather Trousers, M/M, Penelope Creighton-Ward considers murder, They play quite the role, Thunderbirds are Go! - Freeform, Undercover, caught in an explosion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26362372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/pseuds/eirabach
Summary: He remembers the first time he ever saw her, pretty and pink and ever-so posh, and he thinks -- he thinks maybe he ought to have run then, because it's way too goddamn late now, isn't it?Way, way too late.[Gordon + Caught in an Explosion + Penelope for Bad Things Happen Bingo on tumblr]
Relationships: Penelope Creighton-Ward/Gordon Tracy
Comments: 20
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

He remembers the first time he ever laid eyes on her, back when she was a debutante and he was still stealing dabs of Virgil's cologne. She'd floated through that ballroom, between all those businessmen, aristocrats and celebrities and _worse_ , and he'd been sure, totally sure, that she was easily the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. He thinks he might have said so, or maybe his tongue was just hanging out of his mouth, because he also remembers the clout of Scott's hand around the back of his head and the way his dad's laughter had followed the ringing in his ears. 

"Don't even _think_ about it, Gordon."

So he hadn't. Much.

And it hadn't been all that hard not to think about her back then, back when she'd been some distant, ethereal being and he'd been busy falling in love with a submarine. She'd just been a stray thought at night, a flash of gold behind closed eyelids and -- yeah. Easy peasy.

Except then there'd been secret meetings and firm handshakes and scuba lessons and flying cars and the fierce sort of decency that makes his heart skip a beat. A smile that he half convinces himself is always a little brighter when she turns it on him. 

And somewhere, somewhere between that ballroom and the island's beaches, somewhere before an Aztec temple but after -- after _Dad_ , somewhere, some _thing_ had changed.

He thinks it's love, actually. He wonders how much Dad would laugh at that.

Scott had laughed. Not at Gordon's being in _love_ \-- he's not that much of an asshole, not really, and anyway Gordon's not entirely sure Scott would recognise romantic love if it slapped him round the face -- but at the situation? This particular one? Sure. He supposes it _is_ kinda funny.

After all Scott and Virgil have spent a significant amount of energy keeping Gordon _out_ of these sorts of premises -- and now he's _working_ in one. 

Despite the many, uh, _experiences_ of Parker’s misspent youth the passage of time has left him an unlikely companion for this particular mission. Even if he could carry off the tight, leatherette trousers and accompanying waistcoat, there’s a pretty solid, almost certain, chance that he’d lay out the first man to set his wandering hands on her Ladyship. And the second. And the rest. It’s a lot of bail money that GCHQ aren’t especially keen to pay out, and so that’s where Gordon comes in.

And if he’s not _totally_ sure how he feels about the woman he probably actually for real loves classing him as ‘most likely to pass as a sexy waiter’ in a club of extremely dubious repute, he is at least having a better night than Parker who, last he saw, is sat out in the alleyway behind the club panhandling for change.

Gordon’s getting _notes_.

He might not be quite as busty as the majority of the other waitstaff, but that doesn’t seem to bother a significant majority of the clientele. He squeezes between the tables where they’re crammed close together next to the dance floor, bestowing neon bright drinks and winning smiles in almost equal measure. The bass thrums through the club, up his spine, and arcs of ultraviolet light up the shark’s teeth smiles of people he shouldn’t be within a mile of. Some just whistle or hoot or ignore, hey, he can't be _everyone's_ type, but others tuck fifties into his waistband, wink at their companions, whisper things as he leans over to collect the glasses that probably *ought to horrify him. Someone else paws at him, grabbing at his bicep as he tries to manoeuvre his way back to the bar, and the heavy tray he’s carrying wobbles in time with shrieks of laughter and, “ _Oh honey, why don’t you just pop that down and come sit up here with me_?”

On second thoughts Scott wouldn’t be laughing. He’d probably just drop down dead.

“Sorry folks, gotta share the love.” He winks, hovers long enough for the hand on his arm to go for a lingering squeeze and then flexes just enough to set off another round of hooting and hollering. “Y’all have a _great_ night!”

Okay, so maybe the notes aren't the _only_ upside. He's been a long, long time on an island. With his _Grandma_. He's only human.

He kinda shimmies his way back to the bar to drop the tray of empties, leans up against it, and grins.

"Are you _actually_ enjoying this?"

Kayo looks -- Kayo looks like she might rip his head right off if he looks too closely, honestly. The uniform, if it can be called such a thing, of the female bar staff makes Gordon's look respectable, just a minuscule leatherette skirt and two scraps of fabric over the chest, and he's not sure he's seen Kayo in a skirt in -- well, ever, if he's honest. Seeing her in this getup is kinda akin to seeing a brother in full red pvc fetish gear. Scarring.

The look on her face, though? _That's_ hilarious.

"Might be," he says, and leans over the bar to swipe a maraschino cherry. He pops it in his mouth with a grin and probably a little too much tongue. Kayo scowls.

"Do your _job_ , Gordon!"

She shoves a tray across the counter at him. No more unnaturally coloured concoctions here, instead there's an ice bucket, a bottle of champagne that's considerably older than him, and two crystal flutes.

He sweeps up the tray with a wink and a mouthed _FAB_ that has Kayo's eyes almost rolling out of her head, and makes his way past the dance floor that heaves with sweating, gyrating bodies. He heads towards the raised platform at the far end of the club where a velvet cord and dimmed lighting promise something rather -- _different_.

Gordon has to look up, way, _way_ , up, in order to flash his most winning smile at the beefy guy on the rope.

"Special delivery?" he says brightly. The guy doesn't even look at him, only lifts the rope enough for Gordon to slip beneath. He shifts the tray to one hand as he does so and shoves a sweaty curl out of his eyes. It's his first time up here tonight, and he's not entirely sure what he was expecting. The space is filled with plush velvet sofas pushed together to create private little enclaves around impractically low tables, but they're almost all empty. In the darkest, most shadowy corner Gordon clocks another figure, even larger and more off putting than the one guarding the ropes, but other than that -- 

He strides over to the only occupied sofas, lets his hips swing a bit, tries to give off a vibe of confidence that he doesn't _entirely_ feel.

Because the thing about Penelope is that she never fails to look anything other than _perfectly_ at home in any environment, and the thing about _Gordon_ is that she's gonna make him drop his tray. He remembers the first time he ever saw her, pretty and pink and ever-so posh, and he thinks -- he thinks maybe he ought to have run then, because it's way too goddamn late now, isn't it?

Way, way too late.

The beading on her dress glows like liquid fire in the low light, her bare legs are crossed at the ankle, a river of sleek black hair flowing over the arm of the sofa as she tilts her head back at his approach.

"Oh lovely. I'm _parched_."

She sounds like Penny, far more like Penny than he was expecting, all things considered, but there’s a reason for that. This is code. A warning. Things aren’t going entirely her way, and when Penny’s way is also the _world’s_ way, Gordon needs to think on his feet. He presents the bottle with a flourish, glasses neatly held between the fingers of his left hand, and tucks the silver tray swiftly beneath his arm. So swiftly, in fact, that no-one would have noticed the carefully timed wobble as he did so, the flash of reflected light just a meaningless side effect of the motion -- unless, of course, they’re an irritable Security Specialist who is on the lookout for it.

 _Danger_ , he flashes, bending down to pour the champagne, and Penny’s fingers brush ever so delicately against his as she reaches for the glass. She looks up at him through her lashes, darker and thicker than he’s used to as they may be, and he feels his heart rate kick up just a notch. _Caution._

Way too damn late for that, too.

It takes the clearing of a throat from behind him before he remembers the *other reason he's here.

"Nice view, poor service," a voice drawls. "Seems like I just can't get the staff."

Gordon's never knowingly met an international arms dealer before. Not on purpose. They’re not the sort to hang around at charitable auctions or linger at the ribbon cutting of children’s hospitals. When he’d been told he’d be meeting one here he’d expected -- something else. Something old, a throwback to a harder, darker age long past. An ugly face to reflect an ugly soul. Something seedy, like the club around them, ground down and dirty and _wrong_. What he finds on the other side of the cosy little nook is something else entirely.

He’s young, not much older than Gordon himself, slim and smartly dressed with chestnut brown curls and freckles that spill like grains of sand over an upturned nose. He’s _smiling_ as Gordon gapes at him, and that’s -- Gordon doesn’t really know what to do with that.

Penny’s spent _months_ in pursuit of this guy, and Gordon knows why, he does, there are hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of biological and chemical weapons at stake -- the future of the whole planet, even -- and there’s no reason, none, for the funny little burning sensation in his chest to rise up into his throat. No reason for him to flick his eyes back to Penny, to the casual way she drapes herself across the sofa and sips at her champagne. No reason to hold on to the guy’s glass for that split second longer than he has to, no reason to force him to tug at it, a brief flash of frustration creasing the handsome brow. No reason except that this guy stinks of power, of expensive cologne, of something else that Gordon can’t quite put his finger on only he knows he doesn’t want Penelope within a million miles of it. Blood and gunpowder and he probably really shouldn’t piss this guy off.

He probably was not the best choice for this op after all.

"Although --" And the guy’s holding the glass now, he’s holding it and Gordon’s pouring and there’s -- there’s no reason for him to look at Gordon the way he is now. Blue eyes track up his obnoxious trousers, hover momentarily at the cash still stuffed in his waistband before flicking up to Gordon’s eyes. The crease between his eyebrows deepens, and the tip of his tongue peeks out to dampen his lips before he takes a sip. “Then again, perhaps I can.”

Gordon blinks at him, shock rendering him half dumb because Penny’s -- Penny’s right there, looking like _that_ but he’s looking at Gordon like -- like -- 

_Hunger_ , he thinks. _It’s hunger_.

He’d have known what to do with that, once. Pretty eyes and a handsome face. He knows this game of old, although god, it’s been _years_ hasn’t it? It’s been years, but it’s exactly not the sort of game you forget how to play.

Well then. Perhaps he does have a _few_ skills he can bring to the table.

“Uh, thank you?” He shifts his weight, rubs at his damp hair and enjoys the little thrill he gets from watching the way the guy's eyes follow the flex of his muscles.

One neat eyebrow rises. “Thank you? Are you new?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. First night.” 

The guy, and that’s all he can think of him as, just _some guy_ because if he thinks about who he is he’s gonna grab Penny and blow this whole damn thing, reaches over and flicks at the wad of notes. “Enjoying yourself?”

Gordon laughs, a little breathily, a little nervously, a little _genuinely_ , and the tray slips to the ground with a clatter. “Sure! I mean, what’s not to love, right?”

The guy laughs too, rich and throaty, and hooks a finger through the belt loop of Gordon’s trousers to tug him towards him. The whites of his eyes glow violet, his smile almost alien as the lights strobe over them and his hand is cool against the skin above Gordon’s hip as he grips, twists, turns him to face Penny. She’s sitting up now, champagne glass raised, her lip between her teeth. Her shoulders are tensed ever so slightly, the pads of her fingers pale against the glass.

“What do you think?” he asks, “Should I keep him?” 

Penny’s eyes go wide, just a half second’s warning, and then she smiles, cool and cunning.

“Oh,” she says, her smile like ice. “Lets.”


	2. Chapter 2

Gordon doesn’t bring the next bottle to the table, nor the one after that. They just seem to appear, dropped from the darkness by a large, calloused hand to be poured into glasses and down throats at a rate that would make even the most rum-hardened sailor of Gordon’s acquaintance quake with nauseous horror.

Well, some throats.

One throat. Probably.

Penelope, for her part, tips the glass to her lips often enough but her eyes are sharp, her bursts of laughter far too perfectly timed to be anything but by design.

Gordon's playing it a little more -- fast and loose.

Playing is probably the operative word.

He really can’t drink any more of this stuff though, because otherwise he’s likely to fall right off his perch on the arm of the sofa and Penny -- Penny will be _mad_. Penny kinda already looks mad. Huh. She lifts the glass to her mouth again, narrowing those over-dark eyes as she does so. Mr Gonna-Be-Arrested turns to beckon at one of the two giant goons that are lingering at the edges of Gordon’s vision, and Penny tosses the majority of the glass over her shoulder where it lands - presumably - in a puddle of other sticky, liquidy stuff that some poor sap will have to mop up in the cold light of day. Her eyes flick to Gordon’s own glass and one tightly drawn eyebrow ticks up. Oh. _Oh_.

He flicks his wrist.

It’s uh. It’s the wrong wrist.

Mr International-Crime jumps up, shaking little sparkles of champagne from his hands. The goons move in closer, fists tight in the flashing lights.

“Oh dear,” Penny sneers. “What an awful mess!”

Gordon would stick his tongue out at her, but there’s a soggy guy blocking his view and _anyway_ it was her _idea_.

"Oh, whoops!" He pats at Marc's -- because that's his name, apparently, and apparently he thinks Gordon ought to use it -- freshly dampened trouser leg, "Oh man, gosh I'm so sorry boss! Uh --"

“Now, now,” Marc tuts, and one sticky hand covers Gordon’s. Holds it there, against the damp heat of his thigh. “That wasn’t very nice was it?” He smiles, leers, and half of Gordon knows that this is not at all a good thing. The other, somewhat tipsy, half thinks it looks like quite the promise. He might be Penny’s mark, with all the associations that Gordon’s spent several months trying not to think about, but it’s Gordon who finds himself caressed by one of those sticky hands. Marc’s cool fingers step down his throat, tilt his chin up, and this -- this really wasn’t the plan at all, but Gordon is nothing but adaptable. In _every_ sense.

Either way, he’s gotta get this guy out of this club somehow.

He licks his lips, sends a silent prayer up that Scott never ever hears about this. “Maybe I just want to get you out of the suit.”

“Oh, is that --”

It’s not the first time he’s had a demijohn of very expensive alcohol poured over his head. 

At least it’s not televised this time.

Gordon splutters in shock, shuddering as leatherette sticks uncomfortably under the unexpected shower. Marc for his part, is staring at something over his head, mouth agape. Gordon twists around, but his protest dies on the tip of his tongue.

“As entertaining as it is watching you flirt with the lower orders, we have business to attend to.” Penelope tosses her wig over her shoulder, and drops the empty bottle onto the couch beside him. Gordon blinks champagne out of his eyes and tries to catch hers, but her focus is entirely on Marc, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol she hasn’t drunk. “Or is my money not as interesting as this -- “ her eyes finally flick down to meet his for half a second. “ _Boy_.”

“Hey lady,” Gordon snaps, “it’s the twenty first century, don’t get _jealous_.”

Penelope’s cheeks flush a little darker. 

“Marc?”

“Of course -- I --” Marc pushes a damp curl off Gordon’s forehead and honestly it’s kinda a shame that he’s a bad guy because there would have been a time -- still. Marc pulls a keycard from his pocket, pushes it into Gordon’s hand. “Here, go upstairs. When I get back we can have a little chat about your career prospects.”

He bites back the _FAB_ , but doesn’t quite manage to restrain himself from a sloppy sort of salute as he half staggers to his feet. There’s an unpleasant squelching as he does so, and he must have drunk a lot more than he thought because he sways on the spot, the room blurring in and out of focus. Someone, a large, calloused, someone, takes hold of his elbow. 

“‘K, I -- hey, I can -- I can --” Penny and Marc fade into the shadows at the edge of his vision, and then he’s outside, released to slide against the rough brickwork of the alleyway, the night air freezing against his exposed skin. “Hey!”

The dark mountain of a man who’s dropped him outside pauses, but doesn’t turn around. 

“Where’s -- where’s the stairs?”

“If you can find ‘em, up you go,” grumbles the mountain, “Otherwise, I suggest you watch out for the wildlife.” 

A door opens into a world of light and sound, slams behind him, and Gordon thinks -- Gordon thinks --

“What the bleedin’ ‘ell happened to you? Get that bloody thing off!”

Gordon squints into the darkness. Something grey and grubby looking floats in front of him. Two somethings. One and a half. There’s a sharp pain in his neck, and his vision clears enough for him to see the grubby grey things coalesce into Parker, his face screwed up in disgust, a clear bit of plastic hanging from one gloved finger. Gordon rubs at the sore patch and glares up at him.

“What was that for? What’s _that_?”

“What’s --” he rolls his eyes. “For a group of smart young lads you ain’t ‘arf sheltered. Someone took a shine to you, did they?”

Gordon’s never been ashamed of who he is, never, but he finds the thought of coming out to Parker while wearing wet leather in a grubby alleyway is just a little bit beyond his comfort zone. 

“Uh, he --”

“Take an old man’s advice, lad. Don’t go on a second date,” Parker says sagely, and taps his nose. Then he stands, peers out toward the main road. “Where’s ‘er Ladyship?”

A sharp drill seems to have started up right behind Gordon’s right eyebrow and he forces his fist into his temple as he gets to his feet.

“Leaving, I think. Deal’s on.”

Parker drops the square of plastic to the floor and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

“Grand.” He claps his hands together, and shrugs off the battered old overcoat he’d been wearing. “I’ll be orf, then. You ok lad?”

 _Not really_ , is the answer, but Gordon has Marc’s keycard in his pocket and he knows that if Penny’s operation is to come off she’s gonna need all the evidence she can get. After all they know from hard experience that catching them red-handed rarely seems to be enough.

“Yeah, sure.” Parker holds out the coat, but it smells kinda funky and Gordon shakes his head. “S’ok, I got -- got a plan.”

Parker peers at him, then sighs. “If you say so. Miss Kayo nearby?”

“Totally,” Gordon assures him. “Go. Penny will need you.”

Parker hums, hesitates a moment longer before grabbing at a nearby rusted shopping trolley filled with more of the funky smelling grey fabric. As Gordon watches the fabric shifts, falling away to reveal a complex looking piece of flashing, bleeping electronics. God, his head hurts. 

“Don’t you fret, Mr Gordon,” Parker assures him as he pulls a remote control from the machinery. “I’ll see to her.”

From high, high above them comes the whine of engines, and they both look up to see FAB1, black as the sky above, hovering over the alleyway. Her VTOLs fill the alley with an unearthly blue light, and in it Gordon sees the carefully cut staircase that leads up and away and into the shadowy building above. 

“Right,” he says. “Right.” 

\--

He’d lingered long enough to see Parker and his fancy machinery safely away in FAB1, waiting until he’s sure that he’s alone before approaching the staircase. His head is pounding and his legs are still feeling strange, but he presses upward regardless, keeping one hand on the brick wall to steady himself as the ground falls away. He doesn’t even see the door at first, only the flash of a red light then the green as his keycard passes over it, and he’s not beyond admitting the relief that he feels as it opens inwards and he half falls in.

How long do arms deals take, exactly? He could use a _nap_.

Except -- Except, oh. Someone may have beaten him to it.

“Hello?”

The feet at the end of the hallway don’t move from where they’re pointing up to the vaulted ceiling. Smart shoes, but not over polished. The cuffs of a pair of dark trousers just visible over navy socks.

When they were kids John always used to say that Gordon was too stupid to feel fear, and sometimes, sometimes that was probably true. Sorta. He's always been more about the rush, the adrenaline, fear to him has rarely been a baseline _negative_ anyway. It works _for_ him. Mostly.

Thunderbird four surveys the corridor. Spots the darkly spreading stain on the wooden flooring. Slows his pace to a stop. The air smells like rust and sulphur, the silence is thick as blood.

There’s an old style umbrella stand just beyond the door, and he takes hold of it, grips the central pillar tight as he takes another step forward.

“My name’s Gordon,” he calls. “I’m here to help. Can you answer me?” 

He reaches the end of the corridor, umbrella stand extended like a rapier and the answer -- well, the answer is _no._

The man, or what’s left of him, lies sprawled on his back, glazed eyes and mouth wide in a silent scream, russet dried in thick rivulets around the gaping wound in his chest and where it had poured from him to pool around his feet. There’s a gun still loosely held in one blue hand. Safety off. One in the chamber.

He’d been prepared, but too slow on the draw. Poor bastard.

Gordon drops his umbrella stand and reaches down to peel the stiff fingers away from the gun, He clicks the safety back on, and stuffs it, as best as he can manage, into the waistband of his trousers. Unsure of what else to use under the circumstances, he unbuttons his sticky, sodden waistcoat and lays it gently over the staring, screaming face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am.”

He has to bodily force himself back up to his feet, his body aching something rotten, but it doesn’t matter, not compared to the spark of absolute dread that burns through him as he looks around the apartment proper.

It's _wrecked_.

Every drawer, every table is tipped over, their contents scattered far and wide and battered by what looks like several pairs of boot prints. There's gunpowder streaked up the walls, smatterings of red brown across overturned sofas, and maybe Gordon ought to give his dead guy a little bit more credit. 

Maybe he's just a shit shot.

Glass crunches underfoot as Gordon cautiously pushes on the closest, half shut door. Behind it lies the bedroom, simple enough with bare brick walls and a grey coverlet on the king size bed, but it's not much better than the rest of the place, not really. The wardrobes are open, contents spilling all over the floor, a pair of handcuffs and a sheet of those funny little bits of plastic hanging from the bedside cabinet -- and wires, dozens of wires, pulled from the ceiling, from the walls and amongst it all, the only life in the whole godforsaken place, a tiny, holographic image of Penny with the words _sale agreed_ flashing above her dark head and beside her, scrawled on a light type by another hand:

_That damn girl._

And half drunk and half naked, sticky and cold and yeah, probably coming down from something, with a dead body in the next room and in the middle of a gangland battlefield, that’s the moment Gordon Tracy finally, truly feels fear. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah ok there's another part still to come. I got carried away. Urk.

There's a tiny comm unit surreptitiously taped to the skin just above his heart that’s been placed there for -- if not this _exact_ situation -- emergency use in some other horror story from the depths of his brothers' imaginations and he goes to press it -- he does. He just doesn't.

Because the thing is, he knows what will happen when he does. He knows that Kayo will come running, fists flying, only to find him mostly naked and distinctly drug-addled in an international arms dealers bedroom. There will be questions. There will be _Scott_.

There will be probably more than one dead body and that will be the _least_ of his problems.

So he doesn't press the comm. It won't help anyway. This is way, _way_ beyond their norms, and their norms are already pretty damn far from mundane.

Clothes, though. They might help, a bit.

He shucks the too-tight trousers, kicking them off toward the corner of the bedroom, and scrabbles around in the piles of over starched shirts and stay-pressed trousers looking for something that feels less like another man's skin. He doesn't find it.

He hesitates for half a second before pulling a pair of the slacks on, but needs must. They’re perhaps half an inch too long, the shirt too tight at the throat, and the man looking back at him from the cracked mirror is paler than he recognises, with dark hollows under his eyes and thin, bloodless lips.

He doesn’t look much like Gordon Tracy. 

He pockets the handcuffs, and a few of the little plastic squares and thinks, _probably for the best_.

He scans the room for anything else that might come in useful. Most of the electronics hanging from the ceiling look like they might once have been surveillance -- Parker’s work, he assumes -- but none of them have survived intact. He finishes the job, putting the heel of his dress shoe through the unit projecting Penelope’s image, and grinds it into dust on the coverlet.

He casts a last, slightly maudlin, look towards his abandoned fetish gear and, gun held tight in his left hand, safety off, moves back toward his deceased companion and the exit beyond.

He’s halfway out the door when he spots it.

It’s innocent enough, just a little gold tube with the top missing. Just a stick of red the exact colour of Penelope’s lips as she’d twisted them at him in -- disgust? Horror? He can’t remember now, only that he got _wet_ and she was _mad,_ and her lipstick’s in Marc’s bedroom. Her lipstick’s in Marc’s bedroom and there are handcuffs in his pocket and drugs in his bloodstream and actually, Gordon strongly suspects he’s gonna be sick.

He isn't, but it's a damn close run thing. Instead he swallows bile and jealousy and terror alike, and pockets the little tube too.

She might want it back.

Even if she doesn’t, he can’t bring himself to leave it here.

Gordon spares a last glance at the dead guy. His face has turned greyish, his hand clawed around an imaginary weapon, and Gordon allows himself one really decent shudder at the sight. It’s not his first dead body, not by a long, long shot. He just hopes it isn’t gonna end up his first of the _night_. He mutters a half remembered prayer to the universe -- hedging his bets, Virgil would say -- and lets the door slam shut behind him.

\---

It’s started raining, and the hidden stairs are slick as Gordon skitters his way down them, the alleyway floor bright with the reflected neon lights of the world beyond it.

The steel door of the club is slightly open, and the sound of voices and the throb of base echo out and off the narrow walls. Just to the side of it is a large, dark figure, the bottom half of their face lit up ghoulishly by the light of the vape they’re smoking. Gordon takes a deep breath, tightens his grip on the gun, and steps out.

“Hey, you gotta light?”

The figure scoffs. “Cigarettes’ll kill you, kid.”

“Yeah?” Gordon takes a step closer, to where the flashing lights of the club will catch on the barrel of the gun as he lifts it toward the goon’s chest. “I got a quicker way.”

The vape drops, the hands go up and -- hey. This is -- this is easier than he'd thought it'd be. He tightens his grip, shows his teeth.

“Where’s the deal?”

“I dunno what you’re --” Marc's goon's voice quavers ever so slightly. It's a tell, and Gordon's surprisingly excellent at poker, always has been.

Noone _expects_ it from him, that's the thing. They're all too used to Gordon the useful idiot to remember that the key word there is _useful._ Quick on his feet and handy in a fight and he's never exactly been a slave to his reputation except for when it suits him, and Gordon's not one to quibble with the help the universe throws his way. Alone and under _literal_ _ly_ crushing amounts of pressure there's not always time to consult the International Rescue ethics committee. Or Virgil. Same thing.

And right now there's a dead body upstairs and that has _gotta_ come in handy.

“Nuh huh, come on now. You don’t expect me to fall for that do you? Doesn’t _work_ , trust me. I’d say ask the guy upstairs but, uh --” Gordon cocks the pistol, his head to one side. “He’s _super_ dead." Somewhere, Gordon imagines Virgil's brain fizzing out of his ears. "Where’s the lovely Marc and his --” he concentrates on the way he says the words, makes them sticky and cruel against his tongue. “ _Lady friend_.”

The guy's eyes track up toward the staircase before landing back on the gun in Gordon's hand. Gordon's steady, bloodstained hand. He swallows, hard.

"You killed Thorn?"

Gordon wrinkles his nose up as though considering.

"Big guy, blond hair, bad shot? That him?" He doesn't wait for an answer. Only takes half a step closer again. "Thorn's de --."

The man is quick, snatching for the gun with a speed his size belies, but Gordon is an ex Olympian who is _officially_ at least allowed to pilot a _rocket_ and has several older brothers with a penchant for stealing the best snacks. Gordon is absolutely quicker.

He's also half the other man's size.

It makes the knee to the balls a pretty cheap shot, but hey. Needs must.

The larger man folds in half with a groan and it's only a moment's work to wrestle him until he's face first against the wall, hands behind his back, and snap the cuffs into place.

"Deal," Gordon snaps, gun pressed into the roll of flesh at the back of the man's neck. "Where."

"Wa-warehouse," the man wheezes, "down by the docks. Pier -- pier three."

The gun disappears back into Gordon's waistband as he steps back, claps, says,

"Oh brilliant, thanks." Then, "just one other thing though." He tugs at the cuffs, spinning the other man round to face him again, and uncaps the lipstick from his pocket. "I've got a friend who'd _lo_ _ve_ to meet you."

The goon gapes at him as Gordon leans in, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and writes a large, blood red K and O on the sweat damp cotton of his shirt. Gordon pats him on the chest, then draws a heart underneath, just for fun. 

“There. Off you go now, have a _lovely_ night!”

He blinks down at him, his eyes glazed from fear and sheer bafflement, and Gordon tamps down the guilt that writhes behind his breastbone.

“Who the hell _are_ you?”

Gordon grins, big as he can manage, tossing in a wink for good measure as he turns the other man and shoves him through the door back into the club beyond. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.” 

\---

Penelope knows a dozen ways to kill a man.

Far more than a dozen, actually. They probably number well into the hundreds by now. Parker is a dedicated teacher and the circumstances of her life have always been those that recommend _preparation_ even if her superiors still technically frown upon the act itself. Technically.

After all, she’d have to be caught first.

The tie would be easiest. It's already hanging loose around his neck. A moment's work to grasp and twist and _heave._ She’d leave nothing behind but the faintest of red lines, a clear, perfect circle. It would be so simple _._ So unsatisfying.

In the red light of the back seat of the limo she watches _Marc_ picking his teeth with his tie pin. Watches the blood pulsing at his jugular. And _imagines_.

"Don't look at me like that honey," he drawls, and she digs her fingernails into the seat until they leave little half moons behind. "I was just having a little _fun_."

“Oh, is that what you call it?” She sniffs, all haughty fury. The woman, spurned. It’s an act she’s perfected. It’s hardly an act at all. “Tonight is supposed to be a _celebration_.”

“And maybe I fancied a little cherry on top of the cake, huh?” Marc laughs, spinning the tie pin between his fingers, and her hands ache to snatch it. “Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I shouldn’t dream of it,” she sneers instead, tucking the silky strands of her wig behind her ear. “Once I’ve got what I came here for I’m more than happy to leave you to whatever _delights_ you’ve got planned. But I do not appreciate being kept waiting while you flirt with the _staff_.”

He sighs, the tie pin slipping from his fingers and dropping to the floor. Penelope makes a concerted effort not to watch where it lands.

“All right. Here.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call my security guy. Tell him to take care of the waiter, yeah? You cheer up then?”

The boiling rage in Penelope’s belly freezes to solid ice.

She’s spent months on the arm of this man, indoctrinating herself into his inner circle, convincing him of her reliability, her secrecy, her apparently limitless wealth and particular craving for a line of suitcase nukes. Designer casing. Embossed leather. Only the _best_ weapons of mass destruction for her thank you _very_ much. She’s established a reputation as a woman not to be messed around.

Gordon has _not_ . Gordon shouldn’t even have been there tonight, not really, not at _all_ , but Parker would not stand to see her there alone. Parker would not stand to see her alone, and Gordon -- Gordon can always be relied upon, can’t he. Always the life of the party and her willing shadow and oh so very, very good at _attracting attention_.

She shouldn’t have let him come, she shouldn’t, but the deal had been so close she could taste it, gunpowder on her lips, and Kayo had joined them, just to be _certain_ , and --

And Kayo hadn’t been there, when Marc attached that little disc to Gordon’s neck.

Kayo hadn’t watched his muscles go slack and his eyelids grow heavy.

Kayo doesn’t know, not like Penelope knows, how Marc _takes care_ of the toys he discards.

Kayo doesn’t _know_.

Penelope puts her hand over Marc’s, smiles her sweetest smile and hopes it doesn’t shake.

“Leave it. I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

His eyes narrow momentarily, then he’s putting the phone away again, free hand coming up to cup her chin. The action has always repulsed her, now she’s concerned she may actually be sick.

“You know I didn’t clock you as the jealous type,” he says, and -- and she can’t help it. She chokes. Swallows all her breath the wrong way and splutters indignantly as he laughs, taps his fingers against her gasping lips and she’s a _spy_ for god’s sake. She’s meant to be a _spy_. 

“I am _not_ \--” she lies, and he’s laughing even harder now. Laughing till his belly shakes and thank god, thank _god_ he’s as arrogant as he is because she’s pretty certain she must be glowing like the neon sunset on one of Gordon’s awful, perfect shirts.

“All right, sweetheart. Never mind him. How about we talk a little bit more about us, huh? I was thinking, after we could --”

She catches her breath, buries her heart. Pulls back, smiles, and means none of it.

“Oh darling, you really must remember, there are _rules_.”

“Oh?” He’s leering now, like he had at Gordon back in the bar. Like he had at Gordon and Gordon --

Gordon had done a far more convincing job of appearing to enjoy it than she is, she’s certain of that. Bitterly so. But still. Needs must. She takes another deep breath, leans in herself, fingers walking up his thigh twitching with the urge to claw him apart, and purrs against the shell of his ear. 

“Business before pleasure.”


End file.
